The Far Lands
by The Wither
Summary: Jordan Maron had once ruled a kingdom. He comforted it with his voice, once a gift from a god that shared his empty eyes. Now, that voice was a curse. His eyes were the mark of the god that he was born after. So Jordan ran. This was how the story went. This was the story the Sorcerer had to tell.
1. The Far Lands

Consider this first 'chapter' a prologue for the story. It was written first as a one-shot, but was continued in following chapters.

Grammar and spelling corrections are appreciated. Feedback is welcome.

* * *

Jordan Maron had once ruled a kingdom. He once ruled it from the top of his tree, a beautiful tree, the largest tree in the vast northern jungle, a tree named after his precious, fallen friend. He defended it with a sharp sword, the sharpest of blades, made of the slime of his fallen friend's kind. He comforted it with his voice, once a gift from a god that shared his empty eyes.

Now, that voice was a curse. His eyes were the mark of the god that he was born after.

So Jordan ran.

He ran from the world, from the friends that he had known and grown to love and care for. They had been his family, the only relatives he had ever known besides the god who gave him his eyes and voice. They had cared for him too, lifting him high on their shoulders when the world seemed drab and desolate, testing him so he could care for his kingdom as they cared for theirs.

They invited him to a gladiator-style, free for all, last-man-standing competition. The Games were supposed to be for fun and sport, a test of the competitors' skills. Jordan's odds were favored to reach the final duel. He was quick, he was precise, and he was silent. He was well-matched against his opponent, a man named Taylor who was careful, calculating, and tenacious. They had always been well-matched, and always rivals. Their final duel was supposed to be the example, the crest of all the final duels in all the Games. Yet, as always, their duel was never carried through.

Jordan had been careless, cocky. He had allowed Taylor's sword to slice through his red sunglasses, the signature of his character, and the protection for his wicked, glowing eyes. He had allowed Taylor and all the other lords, ladies, and knights of the lands to see his curse. He had allowed his own heart to shatter, just as Taylor shattered the frame of his sunglasses.

There had been no words. No jeers. No screams, neither of fear nor anger. The whole arena was silent as his eyes lit up like small half-moons in the midnight, dim torch-light of the stadium. Taylor was silent as he held the pieces of Jordan's sunglasses in his hand. Taylor and the audience wore shocked, fearful expressions as they recognized his face as the face of the devil.

Their years, their battles, and their words and thoughts with Jordan meant nothing when the face of the man they had grown to trust and love was a reflection of their greatest nightmare. The love and trust meant nothing to Jordan, either. In his empty eyes, their fear was greater than their words and thoughts for him.

Jordan took it back.

With one, miserable song, he took back the love, the blessings, and the joy they had for him and shackled it to his own. Then he took their anger, sadness, and agony and suffocated his heart with grief. He ran from the arena, clawing at his chest, burying their memories and feelings inside. He was gone from the stadium before they could see his face, before they could begin to know him again.

Jordan sang as he ran north. Kingdoms, rulers, subjects, and wanderers all forgot his name, his face, and his life. His grief grew, propelling him farther and faster as the life he once gave the land flowed out and back into him. His song grew stronger, his steps faster, and before the moon fell the next morning, he had passed the Wall in the North and reached the ends of the known world.

Then he sang again. The lands shrieked back, echoing the wrath, the lamentation, and the agony. Their mountains toppled, ground split, rivers and forests burned. The sky bled angry, screaming red. The fire and smoke of hell itself spilled into the lands, tainting them and remaking them according to his song.

The changed land gave him the wicked to build his kingdom, the cursed to serve his needs, and the tormented to carry out his will with sword, dagger, and bow. The unfortunate few crowned him on the throne of his cold, empty palace with clothes made of their guilt and regrets. These ghosts were freed, and sent out into the world, carrying his song and soul with them like a blessing.

They would be his dark apostles, his doomsayers, spreading the hatred, the sadness, and the pain across the land. Under their feet, hell would spread into the world, stealing back the life and love of the lands. It would take only years for the whole world to become ash and shadows.

With his song entombed in the hearts of his bards, what was left of Jordan Maron fell into deep slumber.

This was how the story went. This was the story the Sorcerer had to tell.

The Sorcerer's only wish was that the Far Lands were far behind his once-dead feet.


	2. Church

Consider this entry the starting point of the story, as it has the title.

As always, corrections are appreciated and feedback welcome.

* * *

**The Far Lands**

* * *

Taylor leapt from the grand oak at the heart of the forest and jumped the tree tops to the smoldering village.

Taylor had seen it from the northern barracks tower last night. The embers had lit up the night sky, and the black, billowing smoke nearly blotted out his view of the late night moon. He sounded an alarm, grabbed his bow and quiver, and dived off the top of the tower, sliding down tapestries and bounding off their supporting poles. He sprinted, jumped, and climbed up the main gate, over the wall, and disappeared into the forest before the guards could stir from their dreams.

It was a precaution for them. Taylor was faster and more observant. He could catch nearly anything in his field of vision, be it moving or still. His senses had been sharpened by years of hard battle and survival. It took seconds for him to scan a city, a blink of an eye to capture an image of a small town at top performance. Taylor was tired now, but in a second, he had the village surveyed.

He fired a plain arrow in an arch over the village, visible from the barracks entrance. The coast was clear for the guards when they finally arrived.

The archer jumped from a tree to the top of a house and lastly to a small garden. The crops were trampled, burnt, and scattered around the dirt. A trail of footsteps, two big pairs, one small pair, led over them from the back of the house, but stopped at the gravel road past the garden gate. Just outside, there was a pile of charred black wood, a sizable chunk of a collapsed watchtower.

He got up and approached the pile, noticing an equally charred arm under one of the beams. It was a child's arm, small and thin. Taylor held his gut still and his temper on a short leash. There were no footsteps leading into or out of the fallen tower. The child and its family had burned to death.

Taylor willed away the dark thoughts. It was time to investigate the buildings.

Counter-clockwise would work best. Taylor dashed to the side of the burnt pile, avoiding a few live flames.

He examined the first house. The roof was caved in and the door was blocked from the inside. The only entrance was the hole in the roof. Taylor moved on, noticing similar details of the other buildings. Most were inaccessible, the boors barred or walls collapsed from the outside-in. Others had holes burned into the walls, allowing him a quick glance inside to see ruined furniture and burnt bodies. With no reason to enter, he left those homes alone, and moved on to the next buildings.

As he walked through the town, he saw no bodies in the streets. The fire must have started in their sleep, leaving no time to smother or quench the source.

Taylor followed the burn pattern towards the back of the village. It led down a winding path past a garden and graveyard and stopped at the front door of a church. The stone was stained dark by ash and smoke, and all the wood was burnt to black splinters. The once massive doors were thin and fragile to the touch. Taylor put his weight against one, and it crumbled into a pile of sharp planks at his feet.

Suddenly, a rotting, pungent smell wafted up to Taylor's nose. It was stronger than the charred bodies.

Taylor saw the culprit. A charred, smoking pile of dark ash was laid on top of a spot of hellish red stone, aptly named hellstone. Taylor had seen it a few times before, but his memories were foggy. The smoke, the fire, the ash, all familiar. Something was missing, though. Taylor leaned in close, looking around the hellstone. In a perfect circle, small runes were burnt into the ground.

Taylor rummaged for paper when wood clattered, and the second church door collapsed.

He strafed to the side and vaulted over the altar. His hand grazed the ash-stained marble as he turned 'round, facing the door, drawing his bow and two poisoned arrows, aiming for the intruder to the church.

The man raised his hands defensively. He had no weapon, no apparent reason to attack Taylor, but when his bare arms flew up, Taylor saw the brown stubble of his chin, his brown eyes under his brown fedora, and his adventuring vest, shirt, and cargo pants. Taylor knew him. He knew him from the many Games they played together, from the rivalry they had kept live and lively for the past few years.

Taylor sighed in relief, withdrew his bow, and walked down the aisle to greet Paul Soares II.

Taylor growled, "Warning next time. I would have killed you."

"Like in the Games," the adventurer pointed out, and they quickly shook hands. His smile faded when he faced the red stone near the altar. "I saw the smoke from the west ruins. I got here when the fire died off. I found this place first and thought I should keep track of those runes."

He handed Taylor a roll of paper and a stick of charcoal.

"Took me a while to run back here with it, but go ahead," Paul invited him, and gestured to the floor.

The archer took the paper and set it down over the first rune. Taylor worked clockwise, rubbing one rune at a time onto the paper. While he recorded each symbol, Taylor studied the runes. The placement was typical for a summoning, but the symbols themselves seemed more familiar than that. Paul had the same impression, staring at each rune, growing increasingly frustrated.

"It's there. I've seen them before, but where?" Paul growled. He ran his hands through his short hair, pulling beads of sweat off his scalp. "Taylor."

"Busy," the archer answered. He was down to the last few runes and working on the opposite side of the paper.

"It's getting hotter. Finish up so we can get out of here."

"Quit complaining," Taylor snapped. "Only a few more."

On the last rune, Taylor finally noticed the smoke pouring into the paper. He pulled back just before the floor ignited, the hellstone spread, and a reverberating groan with rhythm and beat wailed from the ground up. The ceiling trembled, its tiles and beams shaking and breaking apart.

Taylor and Paul shared one glance and ran for the doors.

The church began to give under the groan. Stones fell from the ceiling, pews were crushed into ash, fires sparked along the outer walls, the heat shattered stained glass windows into thousands of tiny multi-colored fragments. Taylor caught one sharp shard to his leg, giving a wounded cry as he collapsed onto one knee. It stopped Paul at the arch of the door. He looked back, about to call for Taylor.

His face contorted in fear. Paul backed away from the door, staring beyond Taylor.

Clutching his wound with his pant leg, Taylor spun his torso towards the altar, and fell backwards in shock.

The ashes were moving in the shape of a man with empty white eyes. He was groaning the awful, echoing sound that tore the church down around them. It brought the word 'song' to Taylor's mind, though Taylor knew neither the word nor the meaning behind it. It was familiar like the runes, a gap in his memory that triggered something deep and profound, something that gave him a name Taylor had never heard.

The man walked forward ('singing,' Taylor's mind told him). His form became solid, whole, and shaped as lean and tall as Taylor. His robes were made of shadows. His hood, long and trailing from his head, cut short. The thin shadow that remained of the trail exploded into whispering, black runes, the same as the ones now spreading hell throughout and desecrating the church.

The name repeated, this time with a cut of familiarity.

'Jordan'

Then the 'song' died, the shadows burned into sunlight, and the church collapsed on Taylor's head.


	3. Infirmary

I do not subscribe to the idea of 'chapters'. If I were to publish my writing in a book, I would have sections broken into various lengths, ranging from a few hundred to several thousand words. Consequently, this story will be written the same way. Each 'chapter' will be a section of the story containing one event at a time and will be appropriately named to inform the reader of the main setting, event, or goal of the section. As such, there will be many sections of the story, some longer or shorter than others, and some farther apart or closer in publishing dates to others.

This said, feel free to read, give feedback, and correct.

* * *

Taylor woke to yelling and chanting.

The yelling was from outside the barracks infirmary, on the other side of a stone brick wall. The chanting was on Taylor's side, from a man in clean robes who was between Taylor and the wall. He sat with his arms out, hands above Taylor's leg, and palms glowing a soft blood color. The glow disrupted for a moment, and a flicker of pain travelled up Taylor's spine. Taylor looked to the healer, who now sat with his head turned to him.

"My apologies. I am not focused."

Taylor shook his head. He spoke quick, short, and soft, still shaken by the pain. "I disagree. They're yelling. It's distracting you. Not your fault."

The healer nodded quietly and turned back to face Taylor's leg. The glow grew brighter and the pain duller. Taylor distracted himself by focusing on the surrounding sounds. He could not decipher the language of the healer's chanting, but the healer's tone was that of a caretaker's voice. However, the yelling outside was brash and bold, striking through the wall and door without fail.

Paul was arguing with other commanders. Taylor was hurt, he argued. Taylor needed sleep, he insisted. The runes and robed man from the church could wait for an explanation, he told them, and then questioned why they would not ask him first. He had seen the same as Taylor, smelled the corpses, felt the heat, and studied the runes. Paul rummaged through his belongings and pulled out paper. Proof, he said, to keep them busy. Come back when Taylor isn't in pain, he ordered.

Yelling started again. Taylor could hear the king's voice, ready to shake the barracks foundation. The healer twitched next to Taylor, his chants taking a pause. Taylor snapped at the pain and shouted at the door, inadvertently causing the healer to jump and disrupt his work.

"Stop yelling and get in here before I walk out there and drag you in!" He said it with a hint of pain in his voice.

Taylor would have made good on the threat, had the door not opened and the group wandered in. Seven of them including the king made a loose circle around Taylor's bed. Paul was at the door to his far left, holding it with his back. To his immediate right, the king sat down in the chair, identical to the healer's, and turned the seat around to look at Taylor's face.

"Good to see you have enough strength to shout at me," the king joked.

"Your voice could have woken me if I was dead, Adam," Taylor replied.

It was true, although almost bitter. Adam could carry his voice, but he was often loud, more than often too loud for the narrow corridors of the barracks in place of the vaulted, open rooms and halls of his palace. Admittedly, volume could trump speech in numbers. With such a large and ever-growing kingdom, the volume of his voice garnered the respect and camaraderie of his many subjects and soldiers, despite how overzealous he could be.

Adam almost blushed. Taylor would have seen the embarrassed glint of the king's eyes, if not for the black tinted sunglasses covering them.

"Take those off," Taylor scolded him. "I know you can't see me. It's too dark in here."

"Good to see you have enough strength to order me around, too."

"It was a leg. I'm fine."

Adam leaned forward, raising his voice a notch as he slowed his words. "A church," he began, "fell. On your head. You are not fine."

"I know," Taylor said. "I was there. So was Paul."

"A church, Taylor," Adam repeated with serious emphasis. "One does not simply have a church fall on their head and say that it was merely a flesh wound."

The healer at Taylor's left moved forward in his seat. His hands hovered up and down Taylor's leg, draping a line of trailing light over the wound. Taylor raised his head just then and saw the length and depth of the cut begin to swell shorter and shallower. He wondered how that was his only injury. A church had fallen on him, after all, which Adam was being very clear of.

"Somehow, it was," Taylor shrugged.

"You are just short of metal, you know that, Taylor?"

"Compliment me when I'm not bleeding all over the sick bay. Now be quiet for a minute and let the healer work."

Adam complied, leaned back in his chair, and stared off at a corner of the room. In the awkward near-silence of their breathing, the healer's chanting, and the wound closing, Taylor rested his head down on the bed and thought. He thought about the church, the hellstone, the runes, the voice, and the figure whose voice shook the church to the ground.

However, Taylor thought mostly about 'song' and 'Jordan'.

The first was so strange, a combination of voice and music. Taylor wondered how it could work, wondered why it was so similar to chanting, wondered what its purpose was. Chanting was for magic, for healers and enchanters, for choirs and priests in praise of their god. Taylor wondered if 'song' was like chanting, if it summoned or cursed. The 'song' had been followed by shadows and fire together, and had brought the church down around Taylor's head.

As for the second word, Taylor wondered where the name 'Jordan' had come from.

Apparently, he had wondered out loud.

Ty, a plain dressed man with a thin microphone on the right ear of his slime green headphones, was at Adam's side, combing through his shoulder-long, swept-over-one-eye hair. He thought for a bit, then lowered his hand to cross his arms and give his thought.

"He rules the guild in the far east, close to the Wall in the North. His kingdom is small, but does well for itself." Ty paused, blinked, and added, "I don't see how you could forget that."

"Not that Jordan," Taylor answered, and winced for a moment when the healer rested his voice.

The name was the same, yet the meaning was somehow different. Jordan, the lord with a guild near the Wall in the North, was different from the Jordan mentioned in the church. It was different just as 'song' was different. And though it might have been the concussion and the blood loss at the time affecting Taylor's judgment and opinion, the Jordan he heard in the church felt familiar, and paradoxically somber and spirited all at once.

The healer pulled back his arms, stopped his chanting, and watched with Taylor and the others as his leg closed up. It left a soft, sharp scar where the wound had been, another reminder for Taylor to be more cautious, more observant in the future. Taylor nearly lifted the leg, but the healer put one hand on it, frowning under his hood.

Taylor understood. Taylor wouldn't want delicate and taxing work to come undone in seconds, either.

"Thank you. I'll rest it for now."

"You should," Paul said from the door. "Everyone else should clear out, too, so you can rest it."

The healer looked at him, about to object.

"You can stay. It's your job," Paul agreed. "But everyone else..."

Adam groaned loudly next to Taylor's bed. Taylor gave him a glare as the king stood, adjusted his sunglasses, fixed his long, trailing hair in a ponytail, and motioned for Ty and the five other men to leave the infirmary. They filed out in the order they entered, with Adam in the lead, followed closely by Ty. When the seventh man passed through the arch of the door, Paul walked over and handed Taylor a rolled up sheet of paper.

Taylor quickly unraveled it, and recognized the charcoal etchings. Paul beat his question with an answer.

"I already searched this kingdom's archives and asked every enchanter, healer, and clergy man I read of. There was nothing on there they recognized. However," at this he pulled out a roll of paper identical to Taylor's. "I'm taking a copy west with me. On my way home, I'm going to inquire every magic user I hear of. It's only a day's journey, and I can also have any finds sent by messenger."

"I suppose that will be as good as we can do," Taylor guessed. "At least, while my leg is out of commission."

"That is," Paul agreed. "So you had better rest up and take up your share of the work when you can use it."

"Or?"

Paul smirked, "Who knows? Maybe I'll be crowned current Games champion while you're lying down on the job."

Taylor smirked back. "Doubt it."

"Good to hear," Paul said, pulled his hat down, and shut the door behind him.

Taylor laughed for a bit after Paul left. The healer looked around, observing the many other empty sick beds. Then he looked at Taylor, then at the door, and then down at Taylor's leg. Then, after many minutes of this, when Taylor's chuckles died, as Taylor studied the rubbings of runes, and the silence of the infirmary began to creep on them, the healer spoke.

His voice was hushed, hesitant as he spoke, "I know those runes."

Taylor tried to study the healer's face, but it was hidden under his pointed white hood. His voice, however, had also been honest, so Taylor chose to be honest in return. He handed the sheet over to the healer, who looked over the runes quickly and eagerly.

"We found these on the floor of a church. I was able to create a rubbing before the church collapsed on me."

After a few quiet seconds, the healer handed the rubbing back.

"You aren't telling me the whole story," the healer said. Taylor nearly went defensive, when the man continued. "You won't need to. I know what you saw and I know what you heard. I can offer my help, if you want it, but not in the kingdom, and not with your leg so weak."

Taylor froze up. The healer's words were so sudden, so striking. All at once, Taylor wanted to know who the healer was, if he was a healer at all, how he had seen and heard what Taylor had, and how he knew the runes at all.

As if sensing his swirling, storming thoughts, the healer spoke again.

"Sleep early. When you wake, you will know how to find me, and your leg will be healed." At this, the healer stood and moved to the door. "Until then, do not look for me. If you move, the wound will open up, likely worse than when that glass caused it."

"Wait," Taylor sat up on his elbows, without moving his leg. "Your name?"

The healer stopped halfway out in the hall. He spun on one ankle, revealing a second, darker set of robes underneath. They were shadowy, the same color as the robes of the man Taylor had seen in the church. It stilled and silenced Taylor as the healer answered.

"I," he paused, and with hesitation answered, "Seto."

"Taylor."

"I know," the healer said, as if Taylor had told him the time. "Get some rest. You will need it for tomorrow's journey."

Taylor thought for a moment, considering the healer's words. "Journey," he repeated, "How do you-"

"I know," the healer said again, firmer, with guilt, and he bid Taylor good-bye and good night.

Whether it was Taylor's eagerness for tomorrow, or the heavy burden of the mysterious healer's knowledge weighing him down, the archer let his body fall back against the red and white sheets of his bed. He tucked the paper under his back, adjusted the pillow under his head, and closed his eyes in hopes for a quick and dreamless night.


	4. Dream

The dream began in its normal order.

It was nearing the end of the first ever Games, the first test of skill of only a few of the world's most renowned fighters, of knights, archers, and rogues from all across the kingdoms. Taylor was an archer, a representative of the united kingdoms of the northwest, hunting the final competitor. Paul Soares II would be his final duel, his final obstacle to imminent victory as the first Champion of Games.

Taylor replayed the scene many times. He dashed through trees, over streams, dodging arrows from Paul and monsters summoned to box them in. Taylor was always too quick, always catching Paul off his guard. He always threw a single Ender pearl, landing meters behind Paul in a flash of purple End crystals. He always closed in, battling Paul through streams and into a pond, backing Paul towards a fountain of bright, lava.

As his dreams always went, Taylor pierced Paul's chest plate and struck the final would-be-lethal blow.

As always, Paul conceded defeat and was whisked away, summoned back to the mortal realm.

Yet when the words "I give" fell from his lips, Taylor's victory wasn't claimed.

Taylor stood for a moment, confused. The night was calm, the streams flowing and lava bubbling near his soaked feet. Taylor climbed out, waiting for noise, whether cheers or jeers. There should have been noise, whether it was the sound of the monsters they summoned after his victory, the cheers from his best dreams, or the jeers from his worst. Taylor needed the sound, he needed direction.

He thought hard, travelling through the trees aimlessly.

What if he wasn't the last one?

The thought stopped him mid-step. A fireball struck the ground near his diamond boots, knocking Taylor to the side. The archer regained his footing, gathered his senses and took off in a jog. No direction or goal in mind. It was his only choice, his only reason to keep going until he woke from his misdirected dream.

A voice echoed.

Taylor stopped at a stream, turned, and faced the way he came. The voice came from the woods, past the small pond where Taylor had defeated Paul. Taylor felt its tone, pitch, and timber in his ears. It was different from the other competitors of the Game, different from the overseers that moderated it. It was a voice Taylor had felt he had heard before, but could not remember where.

The voice drew Taylor through the woods. He jumped gaps and streams, chasing its direction.

It struck him as familiar. He had to chase it.

Taylor heard it another time, and turned towards it. It became more frequent and closer. Taylor made fewer adjustments. He broke into a full sprint, trudging up and down low slopes. Taylor heard his heart beat in his ears and chest. Blood was rushing to his core, his body sweating and burning with anticipation. There was a need, deep down somewhere in his chest.

The voice was so close. He had to get over this hill. Taylor rushed up, feet light in the heavy diamond.

He reached the top of the plain, unremarkable hill. His body slowed. The section of the woods was burning, the spruce lit like torches, topped with lava. Ash and burnt leaves swept past his face, brushing against his first enchanted sword. The air was thick with smoke. Taylor could barely see past the burning trees to a small cliff which met the bottom of the hill.

Then, for just a moment, the air slowed, and Taylor realized that the voice was a 'song'.

It was telling a story of battle, a story far too similar to Taylor's dream. It told of the beginning of the Games.

Taylor could almost see their faces, but among them there was another, a shadow that matched the voice. It was there through the Games where Paul should have been. It took Paul's place along a beach, hunting another competitor. It took his place when Paul first met Taylor on a cliff, where Paul backed off a cliff in surprise and fell back down to the shore.

The 'song' ended. It appeared before Taylor, at the top of the small cliff, moving like a ghost out of the spruce woods.

Taylor's body froze. He was afraid of the shadow, a shadow that matched the man from the church.

The fear inside him swelled, his stomach churned.

Taylor rose from his bed, eyes flung open, sheets flung away. He heaved, stomach rumbling, and the fear and tension pooled up before spilling out. Taylor spilled his stomach's few bits of food and water out in a rush from his mouth, dripping over the side of the bed. The acid wafted up to his face, strong and sour, like the faintly green puddle collected in the mortar of the stone brick floor.

Stomach empty, throat raw, and leg still aching, Taylor disregarded the vomit and fell back onto his bed with resignation.

He closed his eyes, and this time, did not dream.


End file.
